


That Gun Is Loaded but It’s Not in My Hand

by Helholden



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Gun Is Loaded but It’s Not in My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Notes:** Bellamy and Clarke share a moment alone. Post 1x07.

_* * *_

 

Bellamy took a swig of Monty’s moonshine. He grimaced against the taste. Even for him, it was rough stuff. No germ could survive it, Octavia had joked on a few occasions. She wasn’t kidding. Bellamy could feel the burn as it coursed down his throat. It scorched the inside of his mouth, but it was worth it.

 

He leaned his head against the steel wall behind him. The storm was still raging outside of their camp. They had gotten a moment of reprieve earlier, but the silence and stillness didn’t last long before the storm was back. All of the mess they had cleaned up, and they were going to have to start all over again. This time they would wait and make sure the storm was gone for good, though.

 

The floor was hard and uncomfortable beneath him, but Bellamy didn’t want to move. His knuckles were sore and bleeding from punching the Grounder over and over again. His muscles burned with a dull ache. He had bludgeoned, stabbed, and beaten the man, but it had been Octavia who had gotten him to speak. She had cut herself with the poisoned blade, and then and only then did the Grounder point out which vial was the antidote.

 

The hatch opened up, and Bellamy turned his head just far enough to see. He recognized her blonde hair before he even saw her face. _Clarke_ , he thought. He leaned forward to push himself up from the floor with one hand, the other still holding the bottle of moonshine.

 

“No,” Clarke said, seeing him move, “don’t get up. I won’t be long.”

 

Bellamy sat back down, silent. Half of the time, he didn’t know what to say to her. They were either butting heads, yelling at each other, or trying their hardest to work together.

 

Today, he was tired of fighting her. They weren’t enemies anymore.

 

They had bigger things to worry about.

 

Clarke walked over to the table. She sorted through the supplies, grabbed three instruments, and then she headed back to the hatch. Halfway there, she paused mid-step.

Bellamy was about to take another swig, but he paused, too, staring at her. Waiting to see what she would do or say.

 

“Why did you torture him?” she finally asked, her voice going quieter than normal.

 

Bellamy raised his eyebrows. “Because Finn was dying,” he said flatly, “and he’s one of us. We have to protect our own if we’re going to survive against them.”

 

“We went too far,” Clarke said, her voice stronger this time. She wasn’t looking at him. “We’re not animals.”

 

“No, we’re at war,” Bellamy clarified. “And we’re survivors. Like I told you earlier, who we are and who we need to be to survive are very different things. Sometimes you have to do things you normally wouldn’t do to survive. It doesn’t make you an animal.”

 

Slowly, Clarke looked over at him. Her eyes were blank. Empty. “What does it make you?” she asked softly.

 

Bellamy found himself struck by silence. He stared at her, unsure what to say back.

 

“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” he finally answered.

 

Clarke was silent.

 

He turned away from her, taking another swig of moonshine. When he had lowered the bottle, Clarke was heading over to him. She sat beside him. Bellamy was staring at her again. Clarke’s eyes were on the bottle in his hands. She held out her hand over his lap and made a grabbing motion with her fingers.

 

“Give me some,” she said.

 

It took Bellamy a moment to realize she meant the moonshine.

 

He handed her the bottle, and Clarke took a swig of it herself. She made a face at the bitter taste, wrinkling up her features into a sour look. If he had the energy, he would have laughed. He didn’t.

 

Clarke was staring ahead, her legs propped up at the knees. Her arms rested on them, her hand dangling the bottle by the neck.

 

“I didn’t think I had it in me,” Clarke told him. “To be like that. To hurt someone. To save another.”

 

“I saw you slide a knife into Atom’s neck,” Bellamy reminded her.

 

“That was different,” Clarke disagreed. “I was trying to spare him pain. There was nothing we could have done for him to save him.”

 

“But there was something we could’ve done for Finn,” he countered. Bellamy reached out for the bottle. Clarke passed it back to him. She was still. “You care about him,” Bellamy blurted out, seeing it written all over her face.

 

That awoke Clarke from her reverie. She shook her head. “I care about everyone,” she disagreed.

 

Bellamy couldn’t stop himself. “You care about me?”

 

He took another swig of the moonshine. Clarke had frozen. She turned her head to look at him, staring blankly, her lips parted in surprise.

 

Bellamy met her eyes, waiting for a response. Clarke slowly closed her mouth. She looked away again, and then aimed her eyes down at her lap. “Yes,” she said, “even you.”

 

“But not in the way that you care about Finn,” he elaborated.

 

Bellamy knew he was treading on dangerous ground with Clarke, but he couldn’t stop himself. They were more alike than they were different, and each day that passed, he respected her opinion more and more. He had spoken her name softly and touched her shoulder earlier, warning her of what he was about to do, and she had stayed anyway. She had endured it. She had seen the worst side of him, and she still expected the best of him.

 

“He has a girlfriend,” Clarke said quietly, barely above her breath.

 

Bellamy knew that tone. He turned away, taking another gulp of bitter moonshine. What a pair they would’ve made, anyway. _The princess and the pauper_ , Bellamy thought bitterly. The thought was as bitter as the aftertaste of the liquid on his tongue.

 

“But you don’t,” Clarke added in a soft voice.

 

That caught Bellamy’s attention. He turned to look at her, furrowing his brow. He wasn’t sure what she meant by it, so he assumed nothing. Bellamy blinked away his shock, holding out the bottle of moonshine for her.

 

“Do you want some more?” he asked her.

 

Clarke gazed at his face, furrowing her own brow. Her forehead wrinkled as unreadable thoughts passed behind her eyes, and she reached out for the bottle. She took it from his hand, bringing it to her lips without breaking her gaze from his eyes. Bellamy watched her drink the moonshine, watching her neck as she swallowed it.

 

It took him a moment before he realized his gaze had trailed to her neck right in front of her.

 

He brought his eyes back to hers just in time for Clarke to lower the bottle. She placed it on the floor. The glass clinked against the metal, and then she was leaning forward. Bellamy was frozen in place. As she leaned towards him, his heart rate sped up in anticipation. When her lips pressed against his, chaste and delicate, he allowed his eyes to fall to a close.

 

He parted his lips, testing the waters, and Clarke slowly parted hers as well. Bellamy deepened the kiss, tasting the bitter moonshine on her tongue.

 

He remembered the red flares they had shot into the sky. He remembered her asking if they could make a wish on that kind of shooting star.

 

But he would rather make a wish on the clear glimmer of moonshine in a bottle.

 

Beneath the bitter flavor, he could taste Clarke. Her kiss became more eager. Bellamy had been afraid of hesitation. Hesitation meant she wasn’t thinking of him, but Clarke didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. He felt her hand on the side of his face, and then her fingers were sliding in his hair. He drew her closer to him, and before he knew it, she was straddling his lap, kissing him deeply with both of her hands holding his face.

 

They were interrupted when the hatch opened up. Clarke didn’t have time to get out of Bellamy’s lap, but she had time to pull away from his lips and turn her head. Her hands, though, were still touching his cheeks.

 

“Um,” said Monty, sounding uncomfortable about what he had stumbled in upon. “I’ll come back later,” he added, and he descended quickly, shutting the hatch once more.

 

Clarke took a deep breath.

 

She was shaking.

 

Her whole body was shaking, her nerves a wreck.

 

“Just breathe, princess,” Bellamy told her. He placed his hand on her chest just above her heart, near her collarbone. He pressed down, applying a little bit of pressure. “Just breathe,” he coaxed her.

 

Clarke took a deep breath, following his instruction. He watched her as he felt her chest slowly rise and fall beneath his hand, and she closed her eyes.

 

He lowered his hand onto her side. Clarke opened her eyes and looked at him.

 

This time her eyes weren’t blank. She was looking right at him.

 

And she saw him.

 

Clarke’s expression changed, her forehead wrinkling again as the look in her eyes became vulnerable for just a moment. She leaned forward, touching her lips to his forehead. It was strangely sweet and unexpected, and Bellamy found himself in shock once again. At his own actions, not just hers.

 

“Thank you,” she said when she pulled away, and Clarke got up from his lap.

 

Bellamy watched as she walked over to the hatch.

 

“Anytime,” he told her, and Clarke paused.

 

She looked back at him, and she smiled. “Thanks,” she called out softly, and Bellamy gazed at her as she descended through the hatch until she was out of sight.

 

When she was gone, he realized he didn’t need the moonshine anymore. His head was swimming. His heart was pounding. His palms felt sweaty. He felt high. He felt drunk.

 

Bellamy ran his hand over his face, pushing himself up from the floor.

 

He stumbled, and caught himself on one of the poles.

 

“Idiot,” he mumbled to himself at his clumsiness, but when he descended down the ladder of the hatch himself to join the others, his palms were still sweaty.

 

And his heart was beating like a hammer.

 

 


End file.
